Recovery
by bezerkoid
Summary: Based on Scenario Two of what happens after twenty years of an undead world.


**Author's notes: This is heavily inspired by the Zombie Survival Guide, particularly the section mentioning the three possible post-apocalypse scenarios. Here I've taken scenario two, humanity rising from the ashes. There will be another version of this, but it will be different aside from the fact it will be humanity's comeback.**

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The man sat by the television and radio, which by now had sat through eleven years and a bit of non-stop silence, the signals they used to receive now a distant memory. The satellites that had been used to acquire information now had crash-landed on Earth, burned in the atmosphere or floated uselessly in space, ghosts of humanity's greatest age.

For nineteen years, Don Brooker had lived on this island with twenty people, all this while listening for the news about their collapsing world, and for the first seven years news had come for what seemed like an eternity. Time was harder to keep track of nowadays, particularly as the undead had changed the world completely.

Unfortunately, a week after the seventh year had ended, the broadcasts had not stopped completely, but had slowed down, becoming more desperate. The People's Republic of China had announced the destruction of Hong Kong before the transmission had been abruptly interrupted by gunfire and moaning. No more broadcasts had been heard from the PRC since.

Two days afterwards, Moscow had descended into in-fighting, with three factions fighting in the streets; rioters, Mafia members and rebels teaming up to loot and try taking over the city, the loyalist military and law enforcement attempting to restore order, and the zombies, drawn there by the sound of combat and the prey that they waited for, while the civilians fought alongside whoever was winning, even trying to please the dead by firing on the authorities and renegades. Not that it worked, of course.

The next week, the Democratic Republic of Congo had been largely wrecked, the undead wandering through the old war zones and the only humans alive were either people exploiting the now-depleted mineral resources or the mentally insane.

Within the next month, central California had been firebombed by some General who'd evidently lost his marbles, killing many civilians who had been coping well and pacified the area they lived in. It went to show that people believed the crap that some government lunatics spewed out of their arse every day.

This time, a scientific official had concluded the virus was no longer exclusively spreadable by bites and was developing into an airborne hazard. It was stupid and a complete pile of horse shit, of course, but Don and his group had been powerless to stop it, sitting in morbid silence while they heard the order being given.

Three days after this recent genocide, the bridges connecting Manhattan and New Jersey had been destroyed, though how this happened had been vague. While there had been many accounts, they varied too much for Don to decide what had really happened. Stories had included another insane General ordering National Guard to destroy the bridge, the dead to have damaged the structure through their sheer numbers and firefights causing the bridge to go up in flames. Don wasn't sure what to believe, but he knew that both cities were probably screwed either way.

A few hours after this, New York, in a near-identical manner to Moscow, had descended into gang fights. This time, the authorities hadn't intervened. Their manpower was probably too low to tackle the gangs, and if so, that meant the USA must be on the verge of capitulation.

Over the next week, Germany had been largely overrun, with Federal Police and KSK now low in number and unable to combat the dead and rebelling. The German government had been one of the first to announce it was moving to an undisclosed location. After that, reporters had confirmed that German Army, Special Forces and Federal Police had begun a gradual withdrawal, presumably accompanying what was left of their government and command. France had then given a similar statement, followed by Spain, Hungary, Ireland, New Zealand, Ghana, and then it had kept on going.

Within a month of these announcements, the broadcasts seemed to grind to a halt like a car braking on a road with high friction. More governments appeared to do the same actions as other countries, but now without telling anyone. Don wondered why. Was it because transmission had become impossible? Had they lost their operators? Or had they simply dreaded telling their people they'd been abandoned?

Either way, the broadcast from Ghana had been the last one Don had heard. He wasn't sure if there had been others, but he had ultimately stopped listening for a reason he wasn't sure about. He might have been upset, tired of the news or simply afraid he'd hear the broadcast he didn't want to. He never wanted to listen to the potential broadcast that his home country, Britain, would make.

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Don was a relatively young man, depending on what the word young actually meant these days. If anybody meant the standard people used before the world had gone to hell, people might say he was young. Nowadays, thirty-one appeared to be relatively old. Most were lucky in these ages if they were older than twenty.

His black, short hair appeared to have been stuck to his head by the perspiration that nearly always seemed to run down his skull. His blue eyes were that of a person who had seen, or heard, enough carnage to last three entire life cycles. Then again, anyone alive had shared experiences similar to him, and the only people who showed and felt no emotion of the carnage they had seen were the dead.

His build was incredibly strong, his arms covered in muscle with his chest tough and powerful. To survive at this, you needed to be fit and strong at what you did. Luckily, Don seemed to fit the bill just fine. Originally your average kid, and Don scoffed at the idea of using averages anymore in this world when the twenty-one people on this island could be the last ones left in the entire universe, he had developed into a team player and strong fighter.

The sound of the door opening reached his ears, and he whipped around like a cheetah, left hand sliding towards the pistol in his holster. It was an instinct he'd developed over the years, something which was a necessity in the current world.

"Don! It's me! Lower the gun!"

Checking who it was, Don hit the light switch, and the figure stumbled a bit as the light flashed on and bounced into their eyes.

The figure in question was Frank, a young black man, who acted as leader of the group. Don had no problem with that. Being a leader just wasn't his thing.

Frank was remarkably tall, five centimetres taller than Don. His hair was thin, like a skinhead, and if you stood a good distance away it might be possible to mistake him for being bald. People had rumoured he'd been in an armed response unit, but he'd given no answer. He proved a reasonable shot and was one of the only reasons the group had been safe escaping from mainland Britain. Frank was about ten or fifteen years older than Don, and if it hadn't been for him, Don would never have made it past his teens.

Don, of course, had left Britain the first year, but he'd initially only planned to take a few people with him. He'd planned to take his girlfriend and a couple of his friends to an evacuation place, but Don had arrived at Belle's too late and she had turned into one of them. He'd put her down with a garden spade before running into Frank, who'd helped him get the group together and escape. Twenty-one people on one island had been surviving for nineteen years. Now that was an achievement. Originally, there had been twenty-three, but one person had died of old age and another of a heart attack. All things considered, he was pleased to have everything as it was. Well, OK, he didn't like the zombies, but they existed, and this place was the safest they had.

"Don, are you OK? You've been sitting here all day. The radio never functions, and you've forgotten to clean your rifle."

"Sorry, Frank. I've just been remembering things."

"The broadcasts?"

Don gave a grim nod.

"It's not like you can just forget them. I don't hear the voices in my head over and over again, but I've just been remembering recently and I don't know why."

Frank nodded.

"I'll let you off this time. Just don't let it happen again. We can't afford nostalgia in these times."

The taller man left and closed the door. Don gave a sigh. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Frank had a point.

He looked at a calendar that he'd made himself, trying to remember the date. May 21st had been the date of the global outbreak's beginning, and in a few days, it would be twenty years since he had fled and the dead had risen.

What had happened to the outside world?

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End file.
